


The Mind Has Its Limits

by CleotheDreamer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Dark-ish, Drabble, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mainly Because of Child Soldier stuff, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Sanity Issues, Slight Albus Dumbledore bashing, War, summer before 5th year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 07:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleotheDreamer/pseuds/CleotheDreamer
Summary: Do you know where you are, little soldier?OR What happens to the mind when it has seen too much.





	The Mind Has Its Limits

**Author's Note:**

> How a child with the amount of trauma Harry had was able to maintain incredibly stable sanity, I'll never know. This is kinda dark and explores the mental health issues of a teenager with too many traumas on his shoulders. Also, I don't like how Albus Dumbledore treats children and never will. He made life almost a thousand times harder for Harry when he could have supported him in a thousand better ways and checked in on him better. There are so many screwed up things he does, but I feel like we overlook them because he comes off so nice. But remember, the book is from Harry's perspective and he's not always the most observant. 
> 
> This isn't to say I hate Albus Dumbledore, he's still a man just trying his best, but I _really_ don't like him. 
> 
> Yeah, nevermind I kinda hate him - or, I hate the things he does.

Sometimes, he tenses when he drops something – the loudness of its fall clattering and chaotic and so unlike his rigid muscles. Ron and Hermione will share a glance (like they _know_ ) and shake his shoulder to bring him back to himself and Mrs. Weasley will mutter on about ‘child soldiers’ and ‘trauma’ when he’s really expecting a cuff on the ear or a rough hand at the scruff of his neck. They’ll try to get him to talk about Cedric after this, and they’ll think that after years of not talking or sharing, he’ll suddenly open up like this is his first trauma and they’re expecting him to be some newly scarred and delicate foal.

He wonders why they never wanted to talk when he killed a man, only when he failed to save one. Like there is a difference in the impacts these deaths have. Like life is so easily discarded when the loss of it benefits oneself.

When the Order meetings get obnoxiously loud and the adults start screaming and pointing fingers, he shrinks into himself like a shadow. And sometimes the people around him will pause and send him pitying glances as if he is a victim of trauma of war rather than a boy falling back on the ingrained responses of a barren childhood. 

But he _is_ a victim of trauma, and he _is_ a child soldier, so why does the smell of burnt food make his pulse race and his heart flutter?

They’ll only ever say, “Bloody Voldemort” when he flinches and lashes out in grief-induced anger. And maybe it _is_ Voldemort that’s the root of all his problems. Sure, he’s often thinking about his walrus-sized Uncle when he shrinks in on himself and maybe he likes small spaces because it reminds him of the cupboard he grew up in (safe), but would he really know these things – feel these things – if it _weren’t_ for Voldemort?

It was only one action that caused the death of his childhood.

He is too small for his age. He is an angry boy wrapped in thick skin stretched too far and the bullets and hits keep coming without pause and he is _shattering_ and – why do they only want to talk about it now?

Surely they’ve noticed – there were _bars_ on his _window_ – why do they want to talk about his problems now? He has too many to sort through and he doesn’t want to face the guilt that is eating away at him when he realizes that the problems centered around the graveyard aren’t what’s got people staring at him.

He let Cedric die yet he’s flinching away at loud noises not for _his_ sake, but for the _Dursley’s_?

It feels like a betrayal; it feels like shame.

He resorts to anger – to bearing his teeth like a rabid animal to protect himself from the world and all its cruelty, and even to protect himself from his own mind. But he doesn’t want to be angry. He’s so tired of anger, but everything is unfair and he can’t help but scream in frustration and pain. Has he ever had a reprieve from grief? Has he ever had a moment to live without fear? Without hate and pain?

His life is a portrait of flayed skin and blood-soaked screams. His life is terror wrapped in broken fingernails and shattered dreams.

He screams at night behind curtains and closed doors. The sound echoes in his ears and his friends run up the stairs to save him from himself, but is it too late?

(‘Who’s Cedric? Your boyfriend?’

No. No, he wasn’t.)

He’s crying now and they wipe away his tears. They will trade glances over his head and pretend he is shattered glass.

(‘Where is your mum, Potter?’)

They are suffocating him with love and he wonders if that will be enough to save him. 

Did he finally break or did that happen years ago?

He wants to scream at them. He wants to tell them that he’s seen more than they could even comprehend. He wants to tell them he has never been a child and he never will be. He wants people to stop treating him like a broken toy – useful, oh so very useful, but not right now. 

(But, there will come a time when you’re useful again little soldier. There will come a time, shattered pawn, where you must ruin yourself completely for them. Where you must go past the point of no return. 

They let you break, but they fix you as well. Don’t you see how they fix you? They are there for you, don’t you see them fix you. 

Break for them. Shatter into dust. They were always there for you, don’t you see?)

He is alone, though. He is an angry force of nature and the only one who understands sees him as a ghost of the past rather than a human. He and Sirius will sit in silence surrounded by the dust of their souls and try to cope – try to grip onto reality with a clenched fist.

(But is it working? Do you know where you are, little soldier?)

His friends, they love him, don’t they? They love him so much, but he doesn’t know love; doesn’t understand it. He was loveless for 10 years. The only love he knew was the leftovers of a time long forgotten – a shield to block out hate, but unable to nourish him with care.

When he cries, what will they say? What will they say when he tells them that he can’t cry anymore? That he lost that ability long ago. What will happen when he screams his throat raw, when it bleeds out his tears while his eyes remain dry?

What will happen? 

What is happening to him? Why is he so angry? 

(He is a spitting animal and a cursed boy. He is made of the fires of hell, but he sputters. 

Can you see the embers burn their skin? They flick off the logs and spark on their clothes, but he wants them to feel pain. Wants to watch their skin scald so they just _understand_.)

He is a boy, but where is his childhood? Where is his love? Where is he?

(‘Are you still there Harry? Harry are you alright?’ 

‘Are you in there mate?’)

Where is he? He’s lost his sense of self. His mind is occupied by a foreign entity determined to make him break. His edges are soft lines, but his tongue is a cutting force acting on its own. Snarling and snapping at the hands near him, even those who give him food. He’s forgotten himself, but don’t blame him; the world’s a broken pottery piece and his body’s wearing thin – the skin is breaking and the blood is flowing and the words, the words are all he has left.

(Albus Dumbledore, you’re a fool. The sword you’re sharpening is losing it edge, but it’s turning oh so sharp at the hilt. 

Albus Dumbledore, you need to take better care of your things. You’re neglecting your weapon. Where is he, Albus? Is he still there? Is he still sane? Will he recognize a difference between you and the enemy?

Who is the enemy Albus?

He’s not so sure anymore, and I can’t blame him for his uncertainty.)

There’s more darkness in the light than people care to admit. There is a goodness in him, but there is evil not only on his forehead but seeping in the cracks of his soul. It is not his fault that constant exposure to the darkest parts of life has led to this.

(None of this really is his fault at all, is it?)

But it’s all his fault – Cedric’s dead. He killed a man, don’t you see? It’s all his fault, don’t you understand? He doesn’t deserve love, everyone is too close and they keep _dying_.

Everything he has touched is gone, gone – 

They’re dead for him, don’t you see? He is dreaming of death, death, death, but he is killing, don’t you see what that means?

He is death, don’t you see it? He’s a killer, a sadist, a twisted soul.

He wakes up from dreams of slaughter to a cool hand on his forehead and he retches, because he just killed a man and _liked_ it. How can they think he is still a child when there is murder in his mind? How can they protect him from himself?

(Albus, do you see his sanity? No? It’s so thin, I could just – snap it… You don’t think he should know? Oh, alright. He’s your weapon after all. But do you see his sanity?

Tell me when it shatters.)

The only dream with the last vestiges of normality is still rotting with death, but in this one, he feels horror. He watches Cedric fall and clings to the despair like a lifeline.

His friends watch him crumble into a shell of himself and make recovery plans, but he is changing. Everyone is trying to fix him. To build him back up. But, he is different now. He is past the point of no return and he needs adaptation. He is the grey in the shadows of this dark house.

He is not the light, anymore. He is not a savior, though he may still have to save. He is a storm cloud. He is a mist of sorrow and rage. He lashes and he broods, and he weeps the days away. 

He can no longer be the man they expect him to be. 

(Is he ever going to be enough for you all? What does he have to do to be enough?)

He is lost inside his morality. It’s twisting and turning and tearing him up inside. He is a storm cloud on a hot summer day and he is _thundering_.

He is a broken man lost in the shell of a boy.

(‘Harry? Are you there?’)

Where is he? He can’t remember where he is.

(‘Where are you, Harry? Come back to us, mate!’)

He can’t see anything but grey storm clouds and summer rain. Where is he? 

(Albus Dumbledore, look, you’ve lost your tool.)

Where did he go?

(Look at how far he’s stumbled, Albus. Were you ever there to help him up?)

Somebody help him. He’s lost, he’s oh so very lost.

(Look at all those pieces, Albus. He’s scattered in the wind.)

Where is he?


End file.
